There is a suitcase in my closet, black with a blue strap, a yellow take-out bag tied around the top handle to indicate ownership. It’s sat in my closet for a year and a half. I went out of my way to stash it in the U-Haul when I moved across the country. 

Inside, in theory: an empty pack of Lucky Strike, a small box of rings and earrings, a refillable water bottle, some elementary school report cards with some signatures, a long since stale pack of gum, a marriage certificate, some half-filled notebooks, a tax report from 2006, a pack of stained playing cards, a thirty year old dog toy, a keychain reading #1 Diabetes, some old pictures that never found a frame, a heavy glass ashtray, and all that’s left of them. Things possessed. 

I don’t have any proof that everything is still in there. I never opened it again. 

Everyday, the same process. I approach it carefully. I run my hand over the strap. Listen to the jingle of the zippers. The devil tempts me to say goodbye and open the case. I set it back down, sit on my bed, stare at it. I never close the closet door, I always want to see it.